


Heading for that Stormy Weather

by deHavilland



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Molestation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Sexual Abuse, Slow Burn, Smut, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-02 15:49:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17266970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deHavilland/pseuds/deHavilland
Summary: It’s 1977 and the American leg of the News of the World tour is coming to an end. When Roger receives a little unwanted attention after a show in Houston, Brian's there to pick up the pieces. But even he can't keep this from spiraling out of control.





	1. Chapter 1

**Houston, 1977.**  
  
It’s not Brian’s night. An hour into the set at the Summit and he hasn’t so much shredded his solo in ‘Somebody to Love’ as he’s taken the original piece of paper it was written on, torn it into tiny pieces and strewn the bits across the stage for the audience to gawp at. While covering their ears. In _agony_.  
  
“Something you may remember from last time,” is how he had first introduced this particular song, and Roger sure hopes they don’t remember how this is supposed to sound from last time. Or worse, from the album, but that certainly seems unlikely: the first few seconds of solo had been so painfully off that it had taken everything in Roger’s power not to visibly wince from behind the kit, let alone remember to cut in with his own raspy “ _somebody_ ’s” after Freddie’s.  
  
It brings him back to their earliest days of still figuring it out and not in a good way. The casual observer might accuse Freddie of being the perfectionist of the group – but Roger is just as irritated by the flubbed notes as Brian no doubt is. This isn’t some college audience at a cheap bar in Truro. This is _the_ _Summit_ , with a crowd of some 16,000 people, the kind of set they could only have dreamed of back in ’68 when Smile was little more than lofty ambition. But, mercifully, Brian isn’t completely thrown by his mistakes and everything finds its way back on track by the end of the song: Freddie pounding away at the piano, John plucking along on the bass and Brian somehow holding it together on a clearly unhappy Red Special as Roger throws in a last cymbal roll to bring it home. For a song played live it’s never quite as satisfying as the studio recording with its soulful 100-voice layering, but the audience doesn’t seem to mind, lapping it up. Brian’s earlier mistakes apparently forgiven as the cheering echoes through the arena.    
  
Roger takes a second to throw a glance his way but with the lights on Freddie as he introduces the next song he can’t quite make out Brian’s expression. It’s not hard to guess at, though: brow furrowed, no doubt. Focus entirely on the headstock as he hastily goes over the tuning on the old fireplace. The intermittent strumming overlaps with Freddie’s spiel, but the frontman ignores it readily.  
  
“Anyway, to start off the so-called pastiche, a song you might recognize,” he throws out at the audience with a casual arm flap before sauntering back over to the piano. “This is a number entitled ‘Death on Two Legs’.”  
  
Roger starts this one off with Freddie, adding gentle cymbal rolls to the cascading piano arpeggios of the intro, joined by John and Brian in a build up to Freddie’s vicious lyrics, performed – as always – with particular relish. He flaunts himself in his black and white harlequin catsuit to the audience with a flourishing backwards wiggle on “you can kiss my ass goodbye” and the nervous tension Roger hadn’t realized he was feeling suddenly dissipates when Brian’s solo riffs go off without any mistakes.  
  
The pastiche, as Freddie calls it, is meant to turn into ‘Killer Queen’ which is where Brian’s next mistake strikes, cocking up the transition between the two songs as though he’s forgotten that this is a medley. It’s a subtle enough flub that Roger doubts anyone in the audience has really noticed – but judging by the look on Freddie’s face, _he_ clearly did. However much it might rankle Freddie, Roger knows Brian’s going to be bothered by it a hell of a lot more. And then, just to make things even more embarrassing, the Red Special loses a string midway through a sustained chord at the very top of the intro to ‘Liar,’ only a handful of songs later. The stage is dark and Roger, rolling gently away on the cymbals in anticipation of the rest of the intro chords, can’t see Brian’s reaction but he can hear the telltale pop-fizz of the speakers as the fireplace is unplugged from its lead. Improvising, the gentle cymbal roll becomes an ad lib beat on the hi-hat.  
  
Roger thinks he can see a flash of irritation down center on Freddie’s face, the only member of the band still illuminated by the stage lights, but it quickly turns into a more characteristically petulant look: the singer using the prolonged beat to rev himself up, strutting forward the moment the amp pop indicates that a Red Special copy is in action and Brian’s chords are thankfully flawless as the rest of the show goes off without another hitch.  
  
Well, other than the rogue drumstick that snaps in half right at the end of the drum solo in ‘Now I’m Here,’ walloping Roger solidly in the face, son of a bitch. He manages to finish it off, compensating for the loss of length in his left hand by falling forwards over the drums. The splintered remains get hurled violently backstage without so much as a glance behind him and one of the extra sticks hanging from the tom-toms serves through ‘Stone Cold Crazy’ and the opening to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’ He doesn’t bother to think about what kind of bruise might be forming on his cheekbone until the band slips off for the operatic bit – a well-earned break as the audience and stage lights bop along to tape – where his drum technician is waiting with a handful of ice wrapped in a paper towel.  
  
“That didn’t catch you in the eye, did it?” Crystal asks as he hands the little bundle over, watching critically while Roger presses it gingerly against the side of his face where the splintered stick made contact.  
  
“Nah, just came back at me with as good a wallop as I gave it.”  
  
“Good,” Crystal smiles around a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. “Because you staked the poor stage manager through the fucking heart.” A jerk of the head directs Roger’s eye to where Nick Pitts has got the splintered remains of the discarded drum stick poking out from between his armpit and is dramatically staggering about in mock death throes. “Might be a little more careful where you throw those things, yeah?”  
  
Roger gives him a good-natured sock on the arm, but the joke – however childish – is still a gentle reminder _not_ to throw things at the stagehands. Too soon, his own voice is belting out the falsetto “ _for meeee_ ” over the monitors and a burst of pyrotechnics ushers him back into place at the kit for the hard rock section, the ice back in his technician’s capable hands.  
  
The show finishes off with the cover of ‘Jailhouse Rock,’ and of course Freddie is deep in his element by this point, prancing and gyrating about in silver lamé, perfectly outdoing Elvis before dashing to the side of the stage to grab a handful of white bouquets, tossing the flowers out to the audience as though pitching to strike out a Major League batter. Almost too soon, he’s thanking the crowd, crooning out his buh-byes to the final chords of the song. The entire band comes forward to take their bows as someone in the mid-stalls raises up the tambourine Freddie had thrown haphazardly into the audience midway through ‘Keep Yourself Alive’ – yeah, they won’t be getting that thing back – and the electric strains of ‘God Save the Queen’ indicate that the show has come to an end.  
  
The post-gig adrenaline sets in as soon as the crown rigging comes down. His face still hurts from that rogue stick, but his arms buzz with newfound energy even though he’s been abusing them for the past two hours and the renewed vigor shows in the way he bounces on the balls of his feet as he leaves the stage. Love or hate being on tour, there’s a mixed bag of emotions each time one comes to an end and with twenty-six scheduled stops on the North American leg of the News of the World tour and only five left – six _shows_ if you count the second one planned for Long Beach just before Christmas – each performance brings its own bittersweet sense of finality. There’s no guarantee of what’s to come but Roger has faith in their ability to stay relevant even six albums in, and at this point there’s already been buzz about starting up again in Sweden come April.  
  
Tour manager Gerry Stickells – a new and welcome add to the team as of the American leg of the Night at the Opera tour – meets them in the wings and ushers them along the concrete corridor to their shared dressing room. Freddie’s leading the way in starts and stops, pausing to greet people backstage and then strutting forward purposefully to retake the lead, only to find someone else to stop for a hello. John’s following along behind, keeping a watchful eye out for obstacles as he flanks Brian who’s got the faulty Red Special slung over his shoulder. Brian still hasn’t lost the I’m-very-very-focused-right-now glaze from his eyes and Roger just knows he’s going moodily over every single flaw in tonight’s performance, walking and breathing relegated to secondary bodily functions. He’s better at mentally punishing himself than anything any of his bandmates could ever say, but it does mean that his ability to navigate even the short walk backstage is severely in question.  
  
Roger is two steps behind, slipping on his sunglasses to hide any bruising that might be starting to show around his eye and ready to jump in to help John steer Brian away from an ill-placed support column in his path when Crystal slaps a pack of Marlboros into his hand.  
  
“How’s the face, Rog?”  
  
Roger thumps him on the shoulder, fumbling out a cigarette from the pack and holding it out for a light. “What are you trying to say to me, CT?”  
  
“That it’s a bloody good thing you spend all night hidden behind the kit, mate.” The drum tech obligingly lifts up the lighter that he’s already got out and ready, and Roger promptly inhales the sweet, sweet acridity of the cigarette as though it’s the first one of the night and not the – well, who’s counting, anyway? “We’re going to start the tear down – you have any problems other than that stick?”  
  
Roger shakes his head without having to think about it. Not twenty shows into the run, anyway. “Same set-up for Vegas, I think. I’ll let you know if Fred throws any curveballs to the set list.”  
  
Crystal nods and heads back in the direction of the stage to supervise the packing up of the drum kit in preparation for the move to Nevada. This three-day break is the longest they’ve had since the Day at the Races tour ended in London over a month ago.  
  
The quick conversation means he’s fallen behind his bandmates and when Roger reaches the dressing room the shower in the adjoining bathroom is already occupied – John, having seen Brian safely down the hall, has already jumped in, probably hoping to avoid any argument that might arise between singer and guitarist.  
  
Freddie’s already started in on him, of course. Roger’s missed the cursory “are you ill? Has someone in the family passed on?” that built up to the inevitable “then why the fuck was that so horrible, darling?” that he finally walks into. They’re at opposite ends of the room, Freddie hovering not quite threateningly – yet – while Brian, seated in one of the old plush chairs that’s certainly seen better days, is loosening the tuning key on the snapped B string. From the corner of the room nearest Roger’s kit bag, Stickells’ gaze wanders awkwardly, the tour manager not quite having the heart to step in and interrupt the inevitable – mistakes _were_ made.  
  
Roger’s eyes flick back and forth between his two bandmates. Draping himself across Freddie’s lap has more than once proven its use as a way to diffuse a tense situation, but Fred’s standing, of course. All the better to lord it over Brian May, usually a good half foot taller than the front man and this not including the hair.  
  
Anyway, who’s Roger kidding? It doesn’t _have_ to be Freddie.  
  
He waits until Brian’s set the guitar to the side before falling into his lap, feeling him immediately go tense under him. Knowing Brian when he’s concerned about something, this is probably the first he’s noticed that Roger is even in the room.  
  
He sprawls, balancing precariously, arms and legs going akimbo as he assumes a wounded expression and stares up at Freddie from behind his sunglasses. “It was me, Fred – I swear. I’m the one who cocked up that solo. I knew I should have stayed on the kit, Fred, I _knew_ , but I just wanted a taste of that sweet, sweet solo for myself, see?”  
  
Freddie falters mid-accusation, but rolls with it, anger quickly shifting toward amusement. One eyebrow shoots up toward his hairline. “And the bridge?”  
  
“Fucked it. I know. I’m a terrible guitar player.” Roger can feel Brian shifting, trying to unseat him, but he retaliates quickly by bouncing in his lap to regain his balance before thrusting the splayed fingers of his right hand into Brian’s face, covering his mouth before he can protest. “Truly terrible. Never happen again.”  
  
And yes, _there’s_ that familiar mischievous twinkle back in Freddie’s eyes. He’s caught him at just the right moment to redirect his focus. “And next you’re going to tell me that the broken string was _just an accident_ , aren’t you, darling?”  
  
“No, no, that was Deacy.”  
  
Somewhere in the midst of Roger’s dramatic defense, the water in the adjoining bathroom has run out and the bassist pokes his head out into the dressing room. “Got me there.”  
  
All eyes shift back onto Freddie, who’s worrying his bottom lip beneath his teeth, making a show of considering Roger’s supposed confession – though Freddie tends to make a show of most things if given the opportunity. “Suitable sentence?”  
  
A smirk blossoms promptly across Roger’s face and he pulls his hand away from Brian’s mouth to spread his arms out wide, baring his chest to the frontman. “Death by firing squad.” It’s at this precise moment, already slightly off balance from the precarious perch on Brian’s lap, that Roger is unceremoniously dumped onto the floor.  
  
“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Roger.” There’s no real bite to the words, just typical Brian May resignation as he stands up, leaving the drummer in a heap at his feet. “I blew a few notes. Sorry, Fred, wish I could say it won’t happen again, but unlike you, I’m only human.”  
  
Even from his bad vantage point on the floor, Roger can tell that this has the potential to end very badly for everyone if Freddie decides to take it the wrong way. Or the right way, which would be as it was intended, no doubt.  
  
Stickells, to his credit, takes this moment to jump in with a debrief. A less experienced tour director might have attempted a measured ‘c’mon, guys, we’re here, we’re on tour, let’s have a good time, no?’ that would only have added further fuel to Freddie’s diminishing fire. Instead, his eyes have been tracking both the progressing argument and John’s return to the room, now fully dressed and towelling off his hair. “Since you’re all here now,” he’d been hoping to lead with this conversation but in waiting for Roger had lost his chance when John ducked into the bathroom, “I just wanted to quickly go over the plan for the next few days. We’re done here tonight, the flight out – once again – is tomorrow morning at 11.”  
  
Their earlier tours had been characterized by bus travel and shared hotel rooms, but with News of the World they’re finally flying first class between any cities that take longer than five or six hours to drive between with – God bless Gerry Stickells and his tour direction – their _own_ rooms.  
  
Roger straightens where he’s still sprawled on the ground, his back falling naturally against Brian’s narrow shins. If there were a thermometer that could measure the tension in the room, the mercury would be falling in time with Freddie as he drops onto the couch opposite, any intended harsh words swallowed back while Stickells speaks.  
  
“I won’t say I necessarily expect to see bright and shiny faces at the absolutely ungodly hour of 10 AM, when the limo leaves the lobby,” here he pauses to look around the room. Roger tries unsuccessfully to not feel singled out when that gaze lands on him and seems to linger for an eternity. “But I don’t want to have to be knocking on any doors and dragging anyone out of bed either.” He slaps his hands against his thighs dismissively and stands. “Great show tonight. Couple of gaffes, yeah, but the promoter’s thrilled. Frankly, I think they like it when things go a little off. Makes the show more memorable. As long as we’re not going _too_ off.” Now that gaze is very firmly on Brian and Roger is suddenly grateful to have only gotten the ‘don’t get wasted and miss the flight sleeping off your hangover’ look and not the ‘you’re a fuck-up but we love you anyway’ glance. “Goodnight, gents. See you at ten.”  
  
With Stickells out of the room, the air feels thick with the potential for the tension to rise again, but this time it’s John who adds his own diffusion. “Well, seeing as I’m the only one who values personal hygiene, where are we going for drinks tonight?”  
  
“We’ll just jump in a car and see where it takes us,” Freddie’s back on his feet, taking John up on his subtle hint and heading for the shower. “Maybe something with cowboy hats and boots,” he’s still talking as he disappears into the bathroom, “We _are_ in Texas, my darlings.”  
  
Under the pretense of a stretch, Roger gives his armpits a quick sniff, ignoring John’s disgusted eyeroll. “I’m not _that_ rank,” he throws back at him, “am I?” He throws his head back to look up at Brian, barely missing beaming his skull against one of the taller man’s knee caps as the guitarist starts to move towards the door, snatching up both his bag and guitar on the way.  
  
“Take a shower, Rog.”  
  
“And where are you going?” He asks as he pulls himself up off of the floor, tipping his sunglasses up onto his forehead.  
  
Brian’s already halfway out into the hall when he answers “to practice that fucking solo.”

*                                  *                                  *

He’s serious, as it turns out, and when the limo leaves the Summit after both Roger and Freddie have showered, it’s only the two of them and John trawling through Houston’s darkened streets in search of suitable post-show entertainment. The trick here is to find somewhere that’s far enough away from the arena that they aren’t getting drunk with a majority of the fans who have no doubt poured out of the venue and onto the surrounding streets. Now, already a suitable distance away, Roger and Freddie have fallen back on their usual game of pointing and shouting enthusiastically whenever they pass something that appears to be open, only to promptly shoot each other’s selections down.  
  
It has the driver swerving erratically on the road and the look of annoyance on John’s face growing darker and darker with each sudden slam of the brakes, but he’s not saying anything and the game continues until Roger spots an out-of-the-way bar that looks blue collar enough to satisfy their needs.  
  
John’s the first one to jump out of the backseat and stalk into the bar with a murmured “thank _God_ ,” leaving Freddie and Roger to follow along behind.  
  
Roger has half a mind to stage a fuss and claim this place isn’t good enough after all just to see if he can get a rise out of him, but chooses to follow Freddie instead, ready to let the singer attract any oncoming attention so that he can hit the bar with no obstacles. It seems tonight might be their night, though: no heads turn at their entrance and the place is just crowded enough to mask their presence without being too swamped to attract the bartender’s attention. It’s vodka tonics all around and the trio find themselves stuffed into a booth that feels terribly like the old days, even with Brian’s notable absence.  
  
But conversation doesn’t come as easily as it once had – not twenty stops into a tour where even with separate hotel rooms they’ve been living more or less on top of each other – and all too soon Roger finds his bandmates slipping away: John to a better drink-ordering vantage point at the bar, and Freddie off to another booth to chat with the locals, leaving him alone. There’s not much by way of the local women in this particular establishment, unfortunately, otherwise he’s certain he’d be just as occupied as his friends. It’s fine, he can drink alone and in peace for now. Nothing wrong with winding down after a show.  
  
He finds himself thinking vaguely that Brian should probably be here. A little winding-down would do him some good, too, but the thought is lost when someone new slides into the seat opposite him. The stranger has two drinks in his hands, one of them a rocks glass to match the empty one sitting near Roger’s left hand. It’s this offering that gets slid forward across the table.  
  
“Roger Taylor, from Queen, right? Barkeep told me what you were drinking.”  
  
The man nods at the glass with a smile and Roger recognizes the whiff of alcohol that otherwise odorlessly betrays the vodka as he raises it to his lips, unquestioningly downing its contents. “Thanks.” He shoots the stranger a quick onceover: nothing out of the ordinary, dark ringer T-shirt, faded Levi’s. Neither Freddie’s proposed cowboy hat nor boots, thankfully. Regardless, he looks more like a local and less like a fan than Roger would have expected of the kind of stranger that would buy him a drink these days. “Were you at the show?”  
  
“Not tonight.” He stretches a hand across the table by way of introduction. “David Harris.”  
  
Roger peers at the hand for a moment and then takes it in his own for a firm shake, wondering what the angle is here. If it’s _sex_ , he’s barking up the wrong tree. But Houston has a decent music scene, maybe he’s a producer or a label exec? It’s hard to tell with Americans, they can be just as formal as any of the record executives that Roger’s used to, but sometimes there’s just too fucking casual. “But you have been?”  
  
“Sure. You guys do a decent set.” The man hasn’t let go of his hand yet and Roger finds himself staring at it, one eyebrow raised, as it’s pulled forward so that this David Harris guy can get a good look at his knuckles. “Pretty torn up. This all from drumming?”  
  
Roger pulls his hand back, rapping those same tattered knuckles briskly across the tabletop. His easy acceptance of the stranger’s drink now turning rapidly toward suspicion. He’s been here before, though since cutting his hair the offers have been fewer. He wouldn’t have expected it of a busy, working-class bar like this one, though. “Goes with the trade, yeah. Catch ‘em on the rims enough times and that’s what happens.” He looks past the man to see if he can spot Freddie, John or an easy excuse to slip out of the booth, but no savior of awkward conversations seems to be forthcoming. Funny, that. His friends are so good about getting up in his business when there’s a woman involved. God forbid they step in when it’s a fucking man.  
  
Across the table, Harris holds his own hands up for examination, revealing long, sinuous fingers with a build-up of callus around his fingertips. Oh. Maybe he’s got this all backwards.  
  
“Guitar?”  
  
Harris nods. “Never got very far myself, but I still like to beat away at it now and again.” He pulls his hands back, dropping them onto the tabletop. “Bass. Never good enough for anyone to want me to play lead or anything. So just bass.”  
  
“Our bass player wouldn’t like to hear that.” Speaking of, where _is_ Deacy? At last glance he’d been up at the bar, but now Roger can’t see him at all. If that bastard’s taken the limo back to the hotel, he’s going to beat down his door and suffocate him with a pillow when he gets back there.  
  
“He’d know what I mean, I think.”  
  
Roger shrugs. There’s something about achieving fame, he’s noticed, that leads to everyone else wanting to tell you that if they’d just gotten lucky they could be in your shoes. Everyone who’s ever touched a drumstick – and probably a few people who haven’t – has told him that they can play the drums and Roger still doesn’t understand the compulsion. Do they think he’s going to hand over his sticks and say ‘cheers, _you_ play tonight’s show?’ But this Harris guy doesn’t play the drums and Roger’s suspicions begin to cycle back to his first assumption that this guy is after something that isn’t on offer.  
  
“Are you in Houston for long?”  
  
“No, just the one show. Long Beach, next.” Still no sign of John – bathroom, maybe? – but there’s Freddie, still off on the other side of the room, regaling an adoring audience with some story or another. A hilarious one, apparently, given the bursts of laughter that drift across the bar from their direction.”  
  
“I think you mean Vegas.”  
  
Roger’s eyes snap back onto the man across from him, narrowing. “What?”  
  
“Your next show is in Vegas, right?”  
  
The mistake hadn’t been deliberate so much as instinctive. Although Roger’s confident he’ll be able to shake this guy off no problem, something inside him hadn’t wanted to say the next tour stop outright as though it wouldn’t be impossibly easy to look up and hell, probably still buy a ticket for. “Listen, it’s been a long night for us. Probably ought to think about heading back in.”  
  
“I’ll walk you to your car.”  
  
“If that’s what you’re after – ” He rises to his feet just a fraction too slow, just barely missing having his way out of the booth not be barred by the – as he’s now noticing for the first time – much bigger man. “ – I’m not interested.” He pulls a cigarette out of the ever-present pack of Marlboros in his jacket pocket and lights one, as much for something to do as to hide his suddenly shaking hands while he waits for the man to step aside. And why, exactly, are his hands shaking?  
  
“Aren’t you? I thought you had quite the reputation for – ”  
  
Roger sees his opportunity and muscles forward, shouldering Harris out of the way mid-sentence. “With _women_.” He ignores him now as he moves through the bar, trying and failing to meet Freddie’s eyes as he pushes open the front door and steps out into the night, scanning for the limo that should be parked nearby if not circling the block waiting for them. If that fucker John Deacon hasn’t already taken it back to the fucking hotel, of course.  
  
A firm grip on his bicep drags him away from the door and towards the alleyway at the side of the building. Harris has followed him outside.  
   
“The fuck do you want?” Roger jerks away, cigarette going flying as he whips around to slam his fist heavily down on the hand curled around his arm.  
  
“Payment for that free drink.” Fortunately there’s no one around to see as David Harris leans in to press his lips firmly against Roger Taylor’s, setting the drummer wildly off balance and using that as an opportunity to haul him farther away from the door and into the darkness of the alleyway.  
  
Roger’s slight by most definitions, but he finds himself being manhandled forward with a lot less effort than he would have thought it should take to get him to go somewhere he has no intention of going. But his legs suddenly don’t seem willing to cooperate and there’s a very persistent buzz in the back of his head that’s starting to overshadow any other thought. That sudden kiss – his first with a man, if he’s honest and not counting pecks on the cheek from Freddie – seems a blurry haze to relegate somewhere to the background. He _should_ be able to form an opinion on that, but there isn’t one forthcoming. Just the vague sense that he shouldn’t be going anywhere near that alleyway.  
  
“Get the fuck off of me,” the words feel cursory, just as blurry and smeared as the very thought that had prompted them.  
  
“What? I thought all the members of Queen _were_ queens, no?” Harris’s grip continues to dig deeply into Roger’s bicep and he just can’t for the life of him figure out why his fucking legs won’t work. “You trying to tell me you’re not?”  
  
“Fuck off.” Even as he struggles to slip out of the bigger man’s grip, he can feel his resolve draining away. It couldn’t have been the drinks, could it? Two shouldn’t have been enough to make his brain lag quite this much and his left arm, already tired from the show, doesn’t seem to be responding to the firing off of any mental neurons either.  
  
“Or is it just that drummers are usually dumb sluts?”  
  
_That_ pierces sharply through the thickening brain fog. If it weren’t something he’s already too-sensitive about, he might have let it go. Instead, his struggles renew ten-fold and he manages to lash out with a shaking leg, catching Harris on the inside of his knee and driving him far enough off balance that his hold on Roger’s arm loosens just enough for him to shake free and stumble, wind-milling, to the side.  
  
The burst of energy is barely enough to propel him more than a few feet away and Harris regains himself much more quickly than expected. Roger’s startled by the sudden jolt of his face being introduced to brick as he’s thrown into something unyielding – the wall, his brain supplies much too slowly – and his skull rattles with the force of impact. Harris is immediately on top of him, one hand holding him up as he crowds against him with his body, the other dipping forward between Roger and the wall to find the button-fly of his jeans a little too easily.  
  
Roger bucks backwards, but a responding jerk of Harris’ hips sends him forward into practiced fingers that have no trouble dispatching with his fly. If his fucking arms would take some goddamn direction he could drive those invading hands away, but instead they press weakly at the wall, brick chewing into his palms as Harris works his fly open. From behind him, he can feel Harris’ hips crowding him and shifting away from that dangerously solid erection straining against his ass only presses his own still-soft cock into those questing fingertips, sending him forward into a warm hand that is embarrassingly starting to arouse interest. Caught between the two, Roger jerks away again, but there’s no give at all – just the unwanted caress of fingers against his bare skin until, unexpectedly: nothing.  
  
The sudden absence of anything holding him up causes Roger to stumble back, just barely managing to avoid hitting the ground when an arm grabs him firmly around the waist. He struggles to pull free, only to realize it’s _Deacy_ , shouting at him to “hold still, Jesus Christ, Rog!”  
  
He stills, shuddering, and his no longer flailing body allows John to do a better job of holding him upright and away from the wet pavement. And oh, it’s raining now. Roger’s brain somehow hadn’t registered that fact. But if Deacy’s holding him, who’s got Harris? He whips his head around, overshooting and cracking something in his neck in the exertion, but still manages to crane about in time to see Harris thrown up against the same exterior wall of the bar that he himself had become so familiar with, held there in place by Freddie’s fists twisted firmly in his shirt collar.  
  
“I don’t think he’s interested, my dear.” There’s a predatory gleam to the singer’s eyes as he gives Harris a good shake, jostling his head hard against the brick.  
  
“Then the slut doesn’t know what he’s missing out on, does he?”  
  
Freddie gives him another strong jerk of his fists before pulling one hand back to strike him solidly across the cheek, swiping to the side to prudently avoid punching his head directly into the wall. “I think you may have a rather inflated sense of what you’re offering.”  
  
Roger wants to watch the rest of what’s going on with Freddie, but John is slapping him lightly on the cheek.  
  
“What is wrong with you? You’re not _drunk_ , are you? You’ve hardly had a thing!”  
  
Roger shakes his head, trying to clear it and still see around John to watch the fight. “Nah – jus’ – ” Great, he can’t even get a proper sentence out anymore, the words coming out slurred and not at all helping his cause. He shakes his head again, eyes starting to droop.  
  
John’s own eyes rake him worriedly, catching on his undone fly. “Did he – did he put something in your drink? Roger?”  
  
“Well,” Roger swallows thickly, more of his weight landing on John as he struggles to remain standing. Being in the presence of his friends is making it a lot more difficult to remain upright, now that the immediate sense of danger has passed. His legs weren’t cooperating before, he can’t even feel them now. “I wouldn’ta – wouldn’ta drank it. If I knew – if I saw – ”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, okay.”  
  
Roger grunts as he suddenly feels himself toppling towards the ground, but it’s just John adjusting his grip to better drag him in the direction of the approaching limo. The driver _had_ just been circling the block. The approaching headlights make him squint and Roger groans when they seem to point directly into his retinas until a second pair of hands – the driver’s? – are helping him into the backseat.  
  
He pushes away at them even as they manage to get him settled. “Where’s Fred?”  
  
“Right here, Roger, dear,” Freddie is next to push his way into the backseat, blocking his view of whatever’s happened to Harris as he pulls the door closed behind him. Is that his lip bleeding? “Exhilarating evening you’ve provided for us.”  
  
John’s worried face hovers over him from the opposite side of the seat and “Freddie, I think he needs to go to the hospital,” is the last thing Roger hears before slipping into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A week before the end of NaNoWriMo, I realized I didn’t care about my original novel plans and just wanted to write 50,000+ words of Queen fanfiction. You’re welcome? 
> 
> I may have overexaggerated Brian’s flubbed Somebody to Love solo. It’s not that bad, certainly no Nirvana-at-the-1992-MTV-Awards. (2:01 for the curious: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IRlJFmb-eds) Sorry, Brian! (As if that’s the worst of my crimes.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your generous comments, subscriptions and kudos! You guys are way too good to me!

Roger wakes up with a dry mouth, a splitting headache and the not-altogether uncommon sensation that something happened last night that he’s never going to be able to remember. Chalk this onto the list of forgotten nights out somewhere between the Day at the Races tour kick-off party and the time one of the roadies thought to mix Southern Comfort with Dr. Pepper and set off fireworks in the Holiday Inn lobby. There’s a story from that night about a police car and the hotel swimming pool, but Roger’s memory of it is completely blank. To this day he’s not so sure they haven’t actually been lying to him about it this whole time.   
  
Which is to say he’s experienced enough hangovers to know better than to try and sit up right away, but the bile is rising to the top of his throat before he can even properly open his eyes and before he knows it, he’s doubled over with yesterday’s pre-show dinner spilling out of him along with the sour taste of cheap vodka that explains a lot more than it doesn’t.   
  
He flinches at the unexpected set of hands that grab him by the back of the neck, manhandling him over a thoughtfully provided waste basket that could only have been standing by for precisely this purpose. He splutters and spits as the grip on his neck loosens and then disappears altogether, replaced by the familiar spangly sound of an electric guitar being played without an amp. Waiting until his stomach settles, he straightens to see Brian sitting on the bed next to him, one long leg drawn up under his body, the other planted firmly on the floor to tap out a gentle beat as he plays. Despite the horrendous pulsing in his skull – or maybe because of it – Roger can tell that, as usual, Brian’s sense of timing is terrible, his foot just a hair off with each beat. Not enough to be noticeable in the short term, but give him another minute or two and he’ll have slowed right down. Hopeless, bless him.   
  
“Takes an awfully big twit to hover over someone with a hangover, twanging away, doesn’t it?” The words come out in a croak, rougher even than his usual rasp, but Roger’s sure that can only help to get his point across.   
  
Brian doesn’t take the bait. The bastard doesn’t even bother to stop strumming, eyes drifting patiently over to Roger as though he hasn’t just emptied the steaming contents of his stomach into a plastic bin a scarce two feet from where he’s playing. Granted, he’s seen worse. At least this time there’s a bin. “Feeling better?”  
  
With a squint, Roger lands one more glob of spit in the bucket, recognizing it now from its original home in the bathroom, and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “Were you there? I can’t remember _shit_.”   
  
Brian’s fingers hit a sour note and then fall still on the frets. “Really? Nothing at all?”  
  
“Apparently not very much. Anybody sink a police car again? Buick, maybe?” He cracks his neck, stretching it out. Must have slept on it funny. What he _does_ remember is Gerry Stickells’ dressing room reminder to be in the lobby at ten o’clock sharp. A quick, craning glance – fuck, that smarts on a stiff neck – at the alarm clock on the bedside table says that time’s long since come and gone.   
  
Brian’s watchful eyes seem to have followed his glance because before Roger can phrase the question, he's answering it. “John, Gerry and some of the crew went with the plane. Freddie had us booked on another flight this afternoon.”   
  
Roger scratches at an ear, struggling to think back to what kind of hooliganism they must have gotten up to last night for Freddie to be wrecked enough to actually let their comfortable private charter plane go on ahead without them. And how poorly he must be feeling to be able to convince Stickells to approve it. “Well you don’t look so awful, you’re not here just to babysit me, are you?”   
  
Gingerly, Brian sets his guitar down in its stand next to the bed, because _of course_ Brian’s brought the fucking stand along with him. Next it’s going to start being carted around with its own museum placard: ‘irreplaceable artifact from long-lost civilization: Hampton, early 1960’s.’ “Actually, Freddie was sitting up with you, but I sent him to bed a few hours ago. What happened last night really rattled him.”   
  
Fantastic. Of course Brian wouldn’t have gotten more than a little squiffy and now still remembers everything. Insinuating that something happened without sharing the gory details is almost as rude as bringing your fucking guitar to your hungover best mate’s bedside. And just how much did he have to drink to justify round-the-clock supervision? His instincts for self-preservation are usually so much better than this. “I mean, that’s very interesting and all, but you’re going to have to clue me in here.”   
  
“Someone put something in your drink last night, Roger.” From anyone else the words might have been jarringly abrupt, but from Brian, they’re measured: equal parts gentle and to-the-point. “Deacy saw you leave the bar and followed you out, but it was Freddie who stepped in.”   
  
“Stepped in and – ” It all comes back in a heady rush. Well, not _all_ of it, but what Roger imagines are probably the most important bits. The foggy sense of being off-balance, the lack of cooperation from his arms and legs, a firm grip dragging him in a direction he’s not keen to go in. The taste of another man’s brand of cigarettes in his mouth. This last one sets his stomach churning again and instinctively he’s patting himself down for the ever-present pack of Marlboros, but his jacket’s on the floor on the other side of the room and he’s not sure he can make it without being sick again.   
  
Turns out he’s sick again anyway, his stomach working to turn itself inside out over the waste basket for the second time this morning. There’s nothing left but a sour mouthful of bile and once that’s gone his shoulders spasm with dry heaves only, sudden shivers racking their way through his body.   
  
Brian’s hand finds its way to the back of his neck again, fingertips kneading into the uppermost knobs of his spine and suddenly Roger can’t stop _shaking_.   
  
“You’re alright, Rog,” he says gently. “We’re getting on a plane and leaving in a couple of hours. There’s time to try and file something with the police though, if that’s a thing you’re interested in doing.”   
  
File with the police? Jesus Christ, there’s an idea. Tell some American officer in cheap sunglasses that some wanker thought he’d put something in Roger Taylor’s drink and – and what? Take _advantage_ of him? That’s a beaut. Hey, can you please make sure you get that taken down right for the press? That’s R-O-G-E-R… _fuck_. He ducks out from under Brian’s hand, pulling away. “What was it?”   
  
“What?”  
  
“What the fuck did he put in my drink?”   
  
“Oh.” Brian twists, fishing around for something on the bedside table before passing Roger a plastic pill bottle. “Quaaludes. Freddie says they fell out of his pocket. John really thought we should take you to hospital so they could try and flush it out of your system, but Freddie was pretty confident they’d pass on their own.”  
  
Roger eyes the little brown bottle – still mostly full – of familiar, white pills. They’ve been making the rounds at all the big parties on their American tours, and some of the crew swear by them. “A party drug? But I thought – ”  
  
“Well. Had you taken _one_ , it might have just mellowed you out.” Brian’s eyes narrow and Roger can sense his anger simmering just below the surface of his usually unflappable demeanor. From the sounds of it, this guy’s already been dispatched by Freddie, but Roger gets the distinct impression that Brian wouldn’t have minded a few rounds in the ring himself. “John had to carry you to the car, so it must have been a couple.”     
  
“And here I didn’t even fucking notice.”   
  
“I don’t think you were meant to.”   
  
Roger turns the bottle over in his hands. Quaaludes don’t just dissolve immediately when you add liquid and he's sure he would have questioned the sight of pills at the bottom of the glass. Could he have crushed them up beforehand? What kind of pre-meditated bullshit is that?  
  
“Here.” Brian’s holding out a hand and Roger stares at it, confused until he realizes that he wants the pill bottle back.   
  
“Don’t trust me with them?” Despite the words, Roger obliges, handing them back over to be pocketed securely. Well, what was he going to do with them anyway? Memento of the evening? Fat chance.   
  
“I don’t like knowing they exist. You could have died, you know.”   
  
Ah.   
  
“Well, I didn’t. And from what little I can recall, he hardly got away with my virtue, assuming, of course, that there’s any left.” He smiles, but Brian’s not convinced by it. Funny, that. Roger’s the one who should be made a halfway sloppy mess from all this, and here he is trying to reassure _Brian_. “Let it go, Bri.”   
  
“I am not going to just – ” His voice rises with each word until a quirk of Roger’s eyebrow sets him back to a normal volume. “I have been sat here with you all night to make sure you didn’t suddenly stop breathing. I will not – I can’t just let this go.”   
  
“But did I?”   
  
Brian’s head whips around to peer at him. “Did you what?”   
  
“Did I stop breathing?”   
  
Next to him, the guitarist seems to go deathly still, the tension in his limbs obvious. “Once.”   
  
It’s not the answer Roger had been expecting.   
  
Brian scrubs at his eyes with a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It was just after I came in. Deacy already had the phone in hand to ring for an ambulance and Freddie – ” He pauses, inhaling deeply through his nose, “I think he panicked. But he leaned over and struck you across the face. You took a great, huge gasping breath and our hearts, which I will assure you had all quite stopped beating by that point, finally started back up again.”   
  
The mental image of the three of them hovering over him in an absolute tizzy is almost funny, and if Brian didn’t look so damn devastated by it, Roger might have laughed. If it were Freddie doing the telling, he probably would have done at the risk of being slapped again. “He did that once before, actually, it was – ”  
  
“I don’t care when it was.” Brian cuts him off, grumbling. “You’re not taking this seriously at all.” He snatches up the waste bin and disappears into the bathroom where the sound of the shower running betrays the fact that he’s actually rinsing the damn thing out.   
  
It’s not that Roger’s not taking this seriously. He can see the gravity of the situation, he’s not a complete twit. It’s just… difficult to pick apart his own feelings. Zeroing in on Brian’s is a lot easier.   
  
But the moment Brian’s out of the room and he’s left with no-one to goad, the whole thing becomes overwhelming. Such a cheering thought to know you nearly died in your sleep, and the sense of having cheated death is an uncomfortable one. In response, his traitorous hands start to shake and the slick, acrid taste of bile is rising back up into his throat. When Brian returns, he jams his palms under his thighs, sitting on them to hide the shakes. No sense in showing him that this is affecting him after all, it’ll only make him worse.   
  
“Are you hungry?”    
  
“You literally just washed my vomit out of a bucket, Brian.”   
  
Brian blinks as though he hadn’t even been conscious of doing it and reaches for both guitar and stand, looping the Red Special’s strap casually over his shoulder. “Easier than some of the places you’ve desecrated with a hangover, actually. But I think I’ll nip down and grab a bite. I could bring something up, or...” He lets the question hang in the air and Roger nods him towards the door.   
  
“Go. I can’t even think about eating. Gonna take a shower, I think.” The corners of his lips twitch up into a sly smile. “Promise not to drown.”   
  
“You’re not funny.” Brian’s rolling his eyes, but Roger knows better. Laughing this off, no matter how conflicted he really feels about last night is the best – the _only_ – way to deal with the lanky guitarist. The evidence is as clear as the look of relief on his face, but God forbid he leave the room without at least one more parting confirmation. “If you’re sure – ”  
  
“Yeah, I’m sure, Bri, jeez. Listen, if you see Freddie, tell him I said thank you.”   
  
If Brian’s eyes were rolling earlier, _that_ sends them positively whirling. It’s nice to see a familiar if exasperated expression on his too-serious face. “Tell him yourself.”   
  
Roger waves him off and Brian slips out, Red Special and stand in tow. Yeah, he’ll tell Freddie. But wouldn’t it be so much nicer if nothing about last night ever left this room? He’s okay, Brian’s okay, Deacy _must_ be okay, seeing as he’s not still here, hovering. It can be hard to tell with John sometimes, but Roger has faith that he’ll be all aboard the SS Forget-This-Ever-Happened when they meet up again later in Vegas. And he’s never known the mostly unflappable Freddie to dwell when something’s over and done with, but they’ll be out of Houston in a few hours anyw – shit.   
  
He considers sticking his head into the hall to call Brian back and ask what time their new flight is, but Brian hadn’t said a word about his plans to shower, so either he must smell terrible or there’s plenty of time.   
  
Ah, fuck it. He’ll come knocking when it’s time to go and Roger doesn’t need Brian to tell him – again – that he should shower. He can figure that one out for himself. His shirt is sticky with sweat and no-one seemed to think it would be a good idea to help him get undressed before depositing him in the bed. Might have been for the best, he’s not wearing anything under his jeans. But sleeping in denim is not for the faint of heart.    
  
His legs still feel a little too much like jelly as he heads into the bathroom, catching his first glimpse of himself in the mirror on the way to the shower. He’d expected the bruise from the stick, it’s not the first time he’s taken a wallop to the face like that, and the resulting mark is always a colorful addition to his skin. This one doesn’t disappoint: it’s a patchy red and blue, not much bigger than Brian’s two pence plectrum and a finger press against it results in a dull throb of pain. Well, what was he expecting, really? He hadn’t realized just how close to his eye it had come until now – another reason to wear sunglasses behind the kit, maybe?   
  
But there are _more_ bruises than could possibly be explained by the rogue stick or even Freddie’s violent attempt at resuscitation, though Roger would be lying if he said he hadn’t been hoping to see a perfect, Freddie Mercury-sized handprint splashed across his face, just to have something to complain to him about later. Instead, the skin in the center of his forehead and all along the bridge of his nose is scraped and raw like a bad patch of rug burn. The right side of his face is just as wrecked, more like someone’s taken a cheese grater to his cheek than slapped it, and based on how awful it feels, he wouldn’t be much surprised if that had been the case.   
  
Funny how none of this had hurt until he’d actually _seen_ it. And not so much as a word of warning from that bastard Brian who must have been looking at this sideshow of contusions for hours before Roger woke up.   
  
And, just to add insult to injury, the circles _beneath_ his eyes look darker than ever and in truth he doesn’t feel terribly well-rested for all that it’s past noon and he’s been out of it for at least the requisite eight hours. And that on a fucking sedative. Quaaludes. Jesus Christ. What a horrible story to add to the collection.   
  
He throws on the shower, letting the bathroom fill with steam while he plunks down onto the lidded toilet seat and drops his head to his hands. _Fuc_ k _._ This had been a lot easier when Brian was still in the room.   
  
But it’s fine. It is. He can handle this. Okay, Taylor, pull yourself together. He’s whole, hale and hearty, nothing worse than the unwanted puncturing of his personal comfort zone. There are places where his memory of last night is still patchy, more than a few of them, actually, but this isn’t some barely-there song in his head that needs to be fleshed out and put down to paper. There’s no actual need to fill in the gaps of those partial memories. The whole sloppy mess can be filed down under ‘lessons learned,’ watch out for weirdos. Call it a day. Maybe have Crystal follow him around and taste-test his drinks from now on like a medieval serf.   
  
He waits until the rising steam makes the mirror too foggy to show his battered reflection and then finally slips off his clothes, tossing them thoughtlessly on the floor as he steps into the hot rush of water. The cuts on his face sting, but if he focuses hard enough on the memory of the stick splintering, he can mark it all down to occupational hazard.    
  
Just another on-the-road kind of evening. Decent enough show, trip to the bar. A little unwanted attention, sure, but this isn’t the first time he’s been singled out – and it probably won’t be the last. It was a more frequent hazard earlier in their career, something about his long, blonde hair and delicate features that seemed to titillate all sorts and whatever Freddie’s orientation behind closed doors might be, the frontman’s flamboyance had certainly never helped in dispelling any commentary on the rest of the band. But all it’s ever taken was a firm “sorry, not interested,” to send a would-be admirer on his way.   
  
So why not the same story here? “Sorry, not interested,” a few jokingly suggestive remarks from Freddie and John, and then back to the hotel drunk as lords with a massive hangover to show for it. Even Brian fits neatly into this version of the narrative. How many times has he helped him or Freddie – or more probably both of them – stumble home after a night out and then stick around to make sure they both woke up in the morning to hear his holier-than-thou ‘and how are _you_ this morning?’  
  
What _doesn’t_ fit is that darkening bruise on his right upper arm with its long, tapering marks that wrap around his bicep – well, with shirt sleeves on, Roger can always pretend it’s not there.   
  
Who says denial’s not a useful coping mechanism?   
  
It doesn’t take long for the hot water to work its usual wonders on Roger’s sore shoulders and stiff neck and soon enough he’s reaching down with a soapy hand for the old tug-and-scrub. Eyes closed against the steady stream of the shower, he palms firmly at his balls, rolling first one and then the other in his hand before sliding down the length of his cock, fingers wrapping neatly around it – which, of course, is when his brain decides to fill in some of those gaps in his memory.   
  
It hits him with a jolt, the sensation of another man’s hand on his cock, caught between a brick wall and a solid, unyielding body at his back. It takes several torturous seconds before he remembers that this time those fingers are just _his_ and he snatches his hand away with a sharp inhale.   
  
Well, shit. If he can’t even touch his own fucking cock how the hell is he supposed to make it through the fucking day?   
  
He stays in the shower until the sting of his face goes numb and the water starts to run cold, never once letting his hand drift back down between his thighs. This is fine. It’s fine. And it takes everything Roger’s got in him not to dwell on the new, all-encompassing worry that not only did this guy manage to slip a hand into his pants, but it’s something that Freddie and John might have actually _witnessed_.   
  
He nearly slips stepping out of the shower, hastily throwing a thin towel around his waist in his hurry to get out of here and dressed again.   
  
And if they’d seen, does that mean Brian knows?   
  
Christ, what about Stickells?   
  
His suitcase yields a probably-clean button-down shirt and a certainly-clean-enough pair of jeans while he’s still struggling to process just how many people might know about last night’s misadventure. Gossip travels like wildfire through the road crew and that’s when the stories _aren’t_ true. He can feel his heartbeat starting to pound, the shakes returning to his hands.   
  
No. They might have told Brian. But Freddie and John would never mention it to anyone else. And Brian Roger can live with.   
  
He hopes.   
  
Whether it’s the thought of Brian and the reminder that he’s downstairs having a bite or just plain hunger, Roger’s stomach grumbles insistently. Food, he can do. Panic he’ll save for later.   
  
A pair of sunglasses retrieved from his jacket pocket doesn’t cover all of the marks on his face, but they do cover some of them and that’s enough to satisfy Roger to face the world at large, starting with the ground-floor lobby. He’s going to have to come up with a better cover story to explain all of the blemishes but maybe a simple ‘you should see the other guy’ will convince even the most curious. And that’s not even lying. He’s been on the receiving end of a few of Freddie’s swings, it hurts.   
  
Brian is still in the cheap little restaurant attached to the lobby when Roger traipses in, an arrogant confidence slipping into place in his demeanor like a well-worn shield. The guitarist is picking away at whatever passes for the lunch special in the tacky little dining room that’s one step up from roadside diner and at least three or four steps removed from the kind of place the Whitehall Hotel claims to market itself as. Still, better than no restaurant at all, if only barely.   
  
He catches Brian’s eye as he approaches the corner table he’s settled into and Brian slips deeper into the booth to make room. “Stomach settled then?” He asks, sliding over a menu no doubt held back in the hopes that Freddie or Roger would join him.   
  
Settled and demanding. Roger nods, nosing through the admittedly short menu. “What’ve you got?”   
  
“Some kind of loaf, it was the only thing with a side of greens.” He pushes at the globby mass in front of him, having already eaten whatever the ‘greens’ were. The loaf’s got meat in it, Roger realizes immediately. For the past few years Brian’s been making a concentrated effort towards vegetarianism, focusing almost solely on a meat-free diet when cooking at home, but on tour it’s not always so easy. The very American meat loaf obviously doesn’t sit well with him. “I don’t recommend it.”   
  
“Gotcha.” The companionable silence as Roger flips through the four-page menu for a sixth or seventh time is a welcome relief. Already his plans for a complete what-happened-last-night blackout are going swimmingly. “Reckon I’m safe with some eggs and bacon?”   
  
Brian’s fork scrapes sullenly across his plate. “Reckon you’re safe with a coffee, the tea’s nothing to write home about,” he gestures to his cuppa with the fork and Roger can tell from the color that there’s too much milk in it. Must’ve been done in the kitchen.   
  
He's just setting down the menu when a waitress appears at the foot of the table, striking a brassy pose with one fist balanced against her hip. She’s got the confident kind of bearing that Roger’s immediately attracted to. With a quick sideways glance at Brian, he wonders how much time they’ve got before they have to go. A quick shag upstairs might be just the thing to soothe away all that wretched trauma.   
  
With the _waitress_ , obviously.   
  
“And what are you in the mood for this afternoon?”   
  
Roger leans forward with a broad smile. “Well, I was thinking the bacon, but let me ask you a question, darling,” in America the accent almost never fails. He can feel Brian’s eyes on him and he knows that _he_ knows what he’s up to, but he doesn’t let his gaze wander from the waitress’ face. “If you were sitting with my mate here, and I were to ask you what _you_ wanted to eat, what would you say?”   
  
She holds out a hand to take the menu – is he imagining things or did her hand just brush deliberately against his? – and flips to the second page, shooting Roger a smile of her own. “Well, the line chef won’t do the breakfast items after 9:30, but the lunch special usually sells pretty well.” She nods towards Brian’s unfinished plate and makes a show of frowning, “but your friend over there doesn’t look like he’s enjoying it very much.”   
  
“Oh, don’t worry about him, he doesn’t know what he’s missing.” He winks and she blushes. Sometimes it’s just too easy. “But I think I’ll just take a coffee.”  
  
“One coffee. No problem. Look, I wouldn’t normally do this,” Reaching into her apron, she pulls out a napkin and a pen and Roger’s pretty sure he's about to get a phone number or – even better – a _room_ number, when her eyes slide away from his to land on Brian’s. Oh Christ. “I’m sorry, are you Brian May?”   
  
_Oh Christ_.   
  
Brian’s face is lit up like the cat who got the fucking cream and Roger can feel his own flushing hot. This has _never_ happened before, he wants to announce to the three or four other people in the restaurant, none of whom are paying any actual attention to this interaction. But it’s the principal of the thing. Thank fuck Freddie isn’t here to see this. This can’t be fucking happening.   
  
“Would you mind terribly signing this?” She hands him the napkin and pen and Roger wishes the booth would simply swallow him whole as Brian neatly scrawls his name under the Whitehall Hotel logo and then holds it hostage for a moment, gesturing towards Roger.   
  
“Do you want his, too?” There’s just a little too much cheek in his tone for Roger’s taste.   
  
“Oh,” and now she’s looking at him again. “Are you in the band also?”   
  
“He is,” Brian answers for him when Roger can’t seem to find the words. It’s not that he _expects_ to be recognized. The average American passerby isn’t exactly likely to stop them in the street for all that this is their fifth tour through this wretched country. So far that’s an experience reserved for Japan, where the fan attention is rampant. But to only recognize _Brian_? Where’s the justice?  
  
“Yes, please, then. If you don’t mind.”   
  
The napkin lands on the table in front of him and Roger has no choice but to sign his name next to Brian’s.  
  
“Thank you so, so much. I really appreciate it. I’ll be right back with your coffee.”   
  
It's Brian, of course, who gives her a polite nod. “Our pleasure.”   
  
Our pleasure indeed. The only good thing that could possibly come out of this encounter is that as soon as Brian tells John and Freddie all about it – which he will, hell, Roger would if it had happened to him instead – they’ll forget all about what happened last night. Of course, the downside is that this might actually be harder on his ego to live down. At least that guy had been interested, right?  
  
“As much as I would love to sit here and bask in that absolutely miserable look on your face, I should point out that that lovely young woman had no idea who either of us was.”   
  
Roger looks up when Brian nudges him to look over at the bar where their waitress is passing off the napkin to another young woman who accepts it with wide eyes and an enthusiastic hug. Her excitement is obvious even from across the room as she clutches at the autographs and keeps throwing not-so-subtle glances in their direction.   
  
“But _she_ did. Poor thing’s the one who took my order when I sat down. She was so nervous she just about poured water in my lap.” His fond smile turns meditative as the bolder of the two women begins making her way back with Roger’s coffee. “You probably do have a chance if that’s still what you’re after.”   
  
“Shut up.”   
  
He accepts the coffee without any further attempts at flirting, letting the waitress slip back into the kitchen.     
  
“Anyway, I think I’m finished with this.” Brian drops his fork and a handful of American bills from his per diem down onto the tabletop and slides out of the booth. “I think I’ll go finish packing up. We’ve hired a car to come ‘round and take us to the airport. Maybe you could drop a quick knock on Fred’s door and remind him to meet us in the lobby for four?”   
  
Roger doubts he’s anything if not already fully packed up, but he doesn’t bother to argue. Of course Brian could remind Freddie himself, it’s very clearly all a ploy to make him seek the singer out, so he lets him go without calling his bluff.  Better to get this over sooner rather than later anyway.   
  
He finishes the coffee in a couple quick gulps, taking just long enough to ensure that Brian’s far enough on his way back to his hotel room to prevent a chance encounter in the hall before dropping a handful of coins onto the table and heading out to the lift in the lobby.   
  
Mr. Alfred Mason is booked into the room across the hall from Roy Tanner’s – with Brian Manley and Jason Dane just two doors down – and Roger stands outside the door trying to think of what exactly to say when it opens. Nothing from ‘thank you for protecting my virtue’ to ‘you literally saved my arse’ sounds right, but if he spends any longer standing out here he runs the risk of Freddie walking out and catching him unprepared anyway. Or worse – Brian. Fueled by a strong desire not to be discovered waffling outside Freddie’s door, he raises his hand to knock.   
  
“Yes, come in, darling, it’s open!” Fred’s voice echoes from somewhere deep within the suite and Roger steps into the room.   
  
 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your kudos, comments and most importantly your patience, everyone! 
> 
> If you want to see what procrastination looks like, come hang out with the lovely folks at the Maylor Discord Server! (With whom I spend way too much time not-writing and yet without whom there would be no writing at all.) https://discord.gg/A6jqFXp

“And then there’s me,” Freddie’s hand goes up, gesturing to himself with a flourish that nearly upends the cheap bottle of California red he’s holding, “feeling just an absolute punter because all night I’d been keeping an eye on _Deacy_.” He laughs as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, his usual raucous cackle that hits Roger soundly somewhere between his heart and his stomach, perfectly infectious. It has them both reeling as the singer leans forward to rifle choosily through the assorted bottles plundered from the hotel mini bar. There aren’t too many unopened ones left, the suite’s chintzy coffee table already littered with empties, spoils of a successful pillage. “Well,” a hand flap from a loose wrist dispels the rest of Freddie’s narrative, “You know how he is these days.”  
  
Roger knows. But John’s fancy-footed descent towards alcoholism is a topic best saved for a time they aren’t one, two, five – no, _three, four_ – five bottles in. Two-a-penny tosspots themselves, if only for the moment. Hardly the right time to put a call through to whatever hotel he’s holed up at in Vegas to give him a lecture about his worsening drinking habits, though the mental image of how that conversation might go only sustains Roger’s laughter.  
  
He reaches for a nearly spent sampler of white wine, some local vintage he’s never heard of and will probably never see again, downing it in one tart guzzle. Who are they to call him out on a few more drinks than usual, anyway. There are vices aplenty between the four of them and John’s is certainly innocent enough by comparison. And they’re here, aren’t they, indulging in their own little afternoon tipple – though to say that this was the reception Roger had been expecting would be the understatement of the fucking century.  
  
At least it had started out as anticipated: Freddie looking up from his seat on the sofa, all pursed lips and furrowed brows, hitting him hard with an appraising first glance. “Could you please,” were his words, or something very similar, everything clipped and over-rehearsed as though he’d been lying in wait of this moment all morning, “in future, be a little more attentive towards what you choose to imbibe at the bar?”  
  
“I wasn’t exactly expecting to be doped, was I?” Roger had shuffled in place, weight shifting from the ball of one foot to the other. At least with Brian, he’d had the luxury of being sat down for the bulk of that encounter. Maybe he’d better make a point of summoning Deacy on his own terms for _that_ inevitably similar conversation. Somewhere plush. Rooftop bar, maybe? They’ve got those in spades in Vegas. Nice, fit girl on his lap, smile on his face. ‘No, no, Deaks, everything’s fine. See? Got a drink, got a girl. Nothing wrong here.’  
  
“Take those off, darling, let me have a look at you.”  
  
But there was no escaping Freddie. Not now.  
  
Away went the sunglasses, yanked off with a theatricality to rival Fred’s own. Ta da: scrapes and blemishes revealed for close scrutiny. Would you get a load of those colours? If only there was still a perfect Freddie-Mercury shaped handprint emblazoned across one cheek to complete the picture, now that’d really be a gas.  
  
“Well,” and there was that familiar, full-toothed smile. Classic Freddie. “I had hoped that a little texture might be an improvement, but my God, you’re still _impossibly_ ugly.” And that was that. Roger, banged up and bruised, had passed muster. There would be no fretful mothering, nothing like Brian’s concerned watchfulness. Just the tongue-in-cheek offer to call down to reception to see about finding a brown grocer’s bag they could maybe cut eyeholes out of. There’d been a particular sharpness to his eyes as he’d made the joke as though gauging Roger’s response.  
  
And Roger had laughed, of course. He’s not stupid. It wasn’t about the marks on his face, not really. This was Freddie’s way of ensuring that he’s okay, and not in a strictly physical sense.  
  
But really, if you ignore the obvious denial, the visible bruises, the holes in his memory, the still vaguely-nauseous churn of his stomach, the weird taste in his mouth that no amount of coffee or Marlboros is ever going to get rid of, the lingering feeling of hands at his hips and the lurking sensation that this shit isn’t going to stay bottled forever, he’s perfectly fine.  
  
Roger Taylor, master of self-delusion.  
  
“Here, look at this,” Next to him, Freddie had held up his balled fists, knuckles angled so that Roger could clearly see the purpled bruising splashed across them. “Quite the pair we make. If anyone asks, we’ll tell them we had a little punch-up.” He feints a few shallow jabs, dark eyes brightening with mischief. “Anyone’s guess who won, of course.”  
  
Oh, of course.  
  
Which is when he – Freddie, that is – had gone straight for the mini bar, the new and much indulged-in extravagance first encountered at the start of this tour, when the number of stars per hotel were considerably higher than the shared accommodations of old. The mystical, liquor stocked-cabinets have fueled many a night of drunken revelry already and if the thought of why exactly Freddie’s fists are bruised drives Roger to accept a good midday sousing, who could blame him?    
  
And now, here they are: in a cozy, euphoric place just north of sobriety, falling over each other like the good old days when a nicked bottle of Scotch from someone else’s house party had been something worth celebrating.  
  
Roger’s sprawled lengthwise across the sofa, feet propped up on one arm, shoulders resting comfortably against Freddie’s thighs. From here, he’s half-in, half-out of his lap and running the risk of being toppled to the floor whenever Freddie leans forward to grab another drink. Gathering up each of the little 20 and 30cl bottles – quarters instead of the usual 70cl standards, else they’d both be dead twice over by now – had been their first order of business. Once lined up across the coffee table, tossing them back had been the second.  
  
If Freddie hasn’t completely bought in to the idea that Roger’s doing just fine, thank you very much, at least he’s giving no sign of it. And anyway, they’re well into nonsense-territory at this point. Pacing themselves between old stories from their Hammersmith days – with added embellishment, the facts more exaggerated than not – and plans for future albums, future shows, future parties. The topic’s cycled back to Hammersmith, though, and it’s as Roger’s rambling on about the time Brian insisted that instead of the usual – and admittedly only modestly successful – blow-out, they needed to help him straighten his hair with an _actual clothes iron_ that he realizes Freddie’s gone still beneath him.  
  
“And then to step out into the _pissing_ rain and have it all go –” Ah. Christ. “Oh, don’t start in on me about it _now_ , Fred.”  
  
“Nonsense, darling,” Freddie’s hand slips down from its resting place on the back of the sofa into his hair and Roger can feel his fingers tighten, kneading lightly at his scalp. The touch disappears after a moment and then Freddie’s leaning over him. “Why would I ‘start in on you’ at all?”  
  
Fuck. There’s a sharp-eyed alertness to his expression that says he’s more sober than Roger had thought.  
  
The long fingers return, continuing their lazy petting. “It wasn’t your fault, you complete tit, if that’s what you’re worried about.” His hand spiders its way down past Roger’s forehead, splaying across his face to squash his nose and crush his eyelashes with a playful shove, “Or was the whole evening deliberate on your par – Roger, are you _licking_ me?”  
  
Master of self-delusion and also distraction, Roger peers cheekily up at him through the gaps in his spread fingers, tongue pressed mid-lick to the center of his palm.  
  
As expected, Freddie snatches his hand away with a laugh, wiping it dry on the arm of the sofa. “My dear, you don’t even know where that’s been!”  
  
“On my tongue, most recently,” he mumbles cringing at the way sitting up sends the blood rushing out of his head as he twists to spit over the back of the couch as though this is his throne on the drum riser and not an expensive venue-hotel in crummy Houston. “And you don’t know where _that’s_ been.”  
  
Freddie makes a show of clutching metaphorical pearls then drops both hands to Roger’s shoulders to give them a little shake – oh, nope. No good. That’s not doing any favors for his share of six-little-bottles-of-assorted-spirits-on-an-empty-stomach and Roger’s face blanches.  
  
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” one of Freddie’s hands slips to the back his neck, grounding him in much the same way that Brian had earlier. “Breathe.”  
  
Roger takes two deep breaths in through his nose and waves Freddie off. He’s fine. This is fine. It’s fine.  
  
“Alright?”  
  
“You don’t think there’s any reason he’d come back, do you?” Jesus Christ, where had _that_ come from?  
  
Freddie seems just as confused by the sudden change in subject, but whether he knows it or not, Roger has a point. It wouldn’t exactly take a genius of Brian’s ilk to figure out where they’re going to be over the next two weeks. It’s no secret at all even, splashed on all the posters in bold, cheering text: ‘Queen – Live at the Aladdin! December 15th!’ That’s Vegas. From there it’s San Diego, Oakland, Long Beach and Inglewood, all California and all with similar, far-reaching advertisements. There are diehard fans who follow them from show to show, what’s there to stop a different sort of fan? One who might very well be harboring vengeful thoughts about his failed attempt to get more than a hand into Roger’s knickers?  
  
“Roger,” Freddie’s tone is careful, no endearments, no flash and though he’d probably like to reach out and touch him, he keeps his hands firmly to himself. “What brought this about?”  
  
He doesn’t have an answer for that, though he wishes he knew. “Just… slipped out.”  
  
It earns him a nod from Freddie, whose eyes have taken on a faraway look, his arm slipping down to wrap loosely around Roger’s shoulders, whatever his better judgement might have said earlier, but Roger doesn’t resist the touch. Funny that, really, how Freddie can break those barriers in a way that doesn’t feel at all off-putting and never has. He wonders if that distant look on his face means he’s reliving the moment his fist connected meatily with the man’s face and wishes he had a similarly satisfying memory of his own and not just this awful sense of vulnerability, his thoughts suddenly caught in some kind of self-destructive loop. It’s not unlike working out a good drum fill, replaying a single phrase over and over, each pass trying to smooth over the imperfections and shape out something good, but always the same beat again and again and again.  
  
But there’s no happy conclusion to be found in traipsing through last night’s memories and honestly, Roger’s just so fucking tired of it. Why can’t he let it go? No full-and-complete, start-to-finish replay is going to be any more satisfying that what he already remembers, which honestly is just _not_. And really – really? – can he actually still _taste_ the acrid chemical aftertaste of the bloke’s cigarettes? Jesus. He could probably just about identify them if he really wanted to. Not his Marlboros, but Pall Malls, maybe? Benson and Hedges? Have they even got those here?  
  
“Rog? I said: which part of a return appearance upsets you most?”  
  
Ah. Thinking about last night sets off… he struggles for the right feeling. It’s not fear. He’s not at all afraid of this bastard. And without those fucking Quaaludes, there’s just no fucking way things would have gone so far. So that must be it, then. He’s better than that, and it’s humiliating. Freddie was watching John because he shouldn’t have had to be looking out for Roger, and that thought sets off a deep flush of – well, _shame_ , really. And the alcohol isn’t really helping that much.  
  
He's always liked having one over the eight. Uninhibited at the best of times, in love, he’s got hearts in his eyes for weeks; angry, he’s a terror – ask anyone. And rather than swing him in any particular direction, a few stiff drinks have always seemed to punch in on that openness, taking it one step further. Something good becomes something to be excited about, something over the line turns sober sulkiness into a more active aggression. But this horrible moroseness just isn’t him, sozzled or sober.  
  
And if he’s being really honest, he’s toeing pretty depressingly close to sobriety right now.  
  
“Because I certainly didn’t kill the bastard,” Freddie prompts, still waiting for him to answer. “Much as I might have liked to. Awfully messy it would have been, too. Promise you that.” He pinches lightly at Roger’s hip, drawing attention back onto the way they’re positioned, fitted neatly against one another, before that hand travels up to his head, to resume the earlier petting – and there’s that thought again: from a stranger in a pub the feelings of violation are infinite, but from Freddie there’s nothing about the comfortable touching that feels quite so wrong. But then, Freddie’s never exactly put a hand on his cock. And certainly wouldn’t without being asked to.  
  
Maybe he’s not so sober as all that, because for a moment Roger considers it. Considers taking that hand and tugging it downwards just to see. Because that’s another gap in his memory that’s been recently filled: his own responding arousal in the heat of the moment. And that’s what it means, doesn’t it? That even pressed against a wall, something inside him had liked it.  
  
But it’s a terrible thought, terrible because of how wrong it would be to ask that of Freddie.  
  
‘Sorry, Fred, would you mind giving me a quick fondle? Just wondering if I’m suddenly gay or not, thanks.’  
  
He slips his own hand into the open collar of his shirt, resting it against the bare skin of his shoulder to keep it from doing something he’s definitely going to regret.  
  
“– and besides, after what I did to _his_ face, I’m sure he’ll be in hiding for a very long time. Much better than what he managed to pull over on yours.”  
  
 Roger thumbs at the growing bruise under his eye with his other hand, thankful for the opportunity to change the subject and let the conversation roll along without thought. He’s done enough thinking. “Give me the benefit of the doubt, Fred, some of this I did to myself.” He hopes his voice doesn’t sound as flat and distant out loud as it does in his head, not now when the subject is finally changing. “Took half a stick to the face last night. Next time that happens, I’m pulling a fucking scene right there on the riser.”  
  
Freddie’s lip twitches, “Oh yes, very good. Maybe you could fall to the stage and call for an ambulance. We’ll make it a regular part of the act. Is there a way we can get the sticks to break on cue?”  
  
Under the pretense of stretching, Roger leans forward and away from Freddie, shifting farther down the length of the sofa, feeling not altogether comfortable tucked up against him with that dangerous thought still lingering near the forefront of his brain. “Nice, thanks. Put me and my eyeballs at risk once a night so that you don’t have to be the most entertaining thing about a live Queen performance anymore.”  
  
“No, no, my dear,” Freddie’s eyes have gone wide in mock dismay, “I will _always_ be the most entertaining thing about a live performance, whether it’s Queen’s or anyone else’s.” There’s a pause there, where Roger thinks he should try and carry on the banter, but it’s just not in him to do it right now. “Roger, this band – you – you’re all very, _very_ important to me.”  
  
And no, that’s not helping him at all. Fuck, what that might’ve done to Freddie if he’d actually tried to force his hand onto his cock, to take advantage of him and their friendship like that. It makes him feel filthy – worse, it makes him feel as awful as the bastard who’d touched him in the first place.  
  
“And of course, if you think there’s any reason we should cancel –”  
  
But that does. “Christ, no, are you joking? Cancel the show? Over this? I hardly even remember any of it. Went to the bar, someone bought me a drink. Then we’re outside somehow and –” He chooses to gloss over the worst of what he remembers, cutting straight into “– then you’re throwing punches and Deacy’s dragging me into the car. Brian says he woke me up once last night, but it’s completely blank. I think he might’ve kissed me?”  
  
Freddie’s eyebrows shoot up into his forehead, “ _Brian_ –”  
  
“What? No, fuck, Fred, the _guy_.”  
  
“You put up a bit more of a fight than he was ready to handle, I think, but he managed to have you against a wall when John and I came running. Must have scraped you up a bit.” Freddie hesitates and doesn’t quite manage to meet his eyes. “If he kissed you, then I think that must have been the worst of it, darling.”  
  
Because of course, Freddie doesn’t know how much Roger remembers or that he’d been able to put two and two together to equal Deacy-and-Freddie-definitely-saw-this-man-with-his-hand-down-his-pants. So, he’s lying, and if that doesn’t just sink Roger further, he doesn’t know what else could at this point. He’s got the whole molested-in-an-alleyway thing going, _plus_ completely inappropriate thoughts about using his best fucking friend to determine how much he’d like the feeling of a different man’s hand on his cock – for comparison’s sake only, of course – and now, by omission, he’s lying to him as well. Forget that Freddie’s lying, too, that’s not important here. He wouldn’t have to if Roger was being honest to begin with. How is it he’s managed to dig himself into a deeper hole than the one he was already in?  
  
The comfortable atmosphere of earlier, the storytelling, the gentle hair petting: all completely shot now and Roger can’t get on his feet fast enough. “I think I’m going to –” He gestures behind him, watching as Freddie’s eyes narrow, following the movement to the door.  
  
“Are you sure that’s such a good idea, darling? Maybe a nap before we go, you could sleep in here and –”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
“Roger, whenever you say you’re fine, you’re –”  
  
“I’m _fine_.” Freddie lets him leave without further argument, but Roger knows it’s only just barely.    
  
With two hotel room doors and a hallway safely between him and Freddie – and at least just the one door between himself and Brian, uncomfortable conversations, men who put Quaaludes in other peoples’ drinks, lies between friends, and some kind of crippling, homophobic fear - he finds himself gravitating to his own room’s mini bar.  
  
Surely it wouldn’t hurt to finish the job already started back at Freddie’s? Just a little more, enough to bring the buzz back, rev it up to a higher amplitude so he can take a nap and try to sleep this whole nightmare off. He’s got a few hours to burn and he doesn’t want to spend any more time _thinking_ than he already has.  
  
Rifling through the bottles produces that eighth of Southern Comfort that had been the first thing to get downed earlier, but this time it’s all Roger’s.  
  
When the phone starts to ring just after four o’clock, there’s none left.

  
*                                  *                                  *

  
“Hello, yes, calling to reach Gerry Stickells in room 1607 – yes, thank you.” Roger is dimly aware that there’s a dip in the bed somewhere off to the right, closest to the door and – apparently – the telephone. “Hi, Gerry.”  
  
And that’s kind of funny because Roger’s pretty sure he disconnected that telephone.  
  
“Bad case of food poisoning, I think. Must have been bad eggs he had at lunch – yes, thanks, Gerry.”  
  
Yeah. He did. He definitely did. He remembers the whole thing: flopping belly-first onto the bed and flailing out with one arm to send the receiver flying across the room. He’d even managed to shimmy forward on his stomach to give the cord a satisfying yank out of the wall for good measure. That’d show it. No more shrill, mechanical ringing from that piece of crap.  
  
“I’ll let you know the minute we check in, won’t let him out of my sight.”  
  
Of course, there’d been nothing to do about the incessant knocking that had followed once the phone’d been put out of commission. First Brian’s gentle tapping and then Freddie’s more aggressive pounding. He’d pulled the pillow over his head for that. And where’s that pillow gone, now, anyway?  
  
“He’ll be there in time if I have to carry him the whole way – yeah, 3 o’clock tomorrow – no, I’m not writing it down. I’ll remember.”  
  
If he tilts his head and squints, he can just make out the red glow of the clock radio on the bedside table. Four o’clock came and went while the phone was still ringing. The knocking started at quarter past and now it’s – he narrows his eyes further, the combination of a growing hangover and his already poor eyesight making the numbers blur – past six? He dimly remembers waking up to the rasp of a key in the lock, but it seems he’s been dozing on and off since then.  
  
“Awake now, are you?” The soft click of the handset dropping down onto the receiver is a heavy thud in Roger’s ears, and he squirms, pressing his face deeper into the sheets, pillow still missing in action. “You know, you’d have thought we’d be able to pull together a group of four people without any of them being complete gits.”  
  
The mattress dips further as Brian moves closer – because _of course_ it’s Brian. Freddie would have flipped the mattress and given him hell in at least four different octaves by now – so that when Roger finally twists to look at him, he ends up with a face-full of slim thigh, he’s sitting that close. “Calling me dumb. Thanks, much.”  
  
“If this is how you’re going to behave, then I think it’s fair to say you’ve earned it.” Brian shifts his weight closer to the edge of the bed so that Roger has a little more breathing room. “At four o’clock, Fred comes downstairs looking better than I’ve seen him all day, and says ‘Rog and me, we had a good chat upstairs after lunch.’ Imagine our surprise when you fail to show up for the car, won’t answer the phone and tell us to fuck off instead of opening the door?”  
  
Roger doesn’t remember telling anyone to fuck off, but it does sound like something he might have done.  
  
He props himself clumsily up on his elbows and nods towards the door. “Fred still here, too, then?”  
  
“Fred’s halfway to Vegas. We have a show there tomorrow night, in case you’ve forgotten.”  
  
That’s hardly fair, Roger would love to cut all this crap and be on that metaphorical rooftop patio, girl perched on his knee, drink in his hand. More than anyone else, even. “You didn’t have to stay back here for me.”  
  
“Didn’t I?” Brian’s words are mild, but there’s a familiar steeliness to them. The kind of tone that comes from pushing his point in a recording session. “The road crew’s already left. The minders have already left. Let’s say something else had happened to you: who’d be able to pass that along? Should we just play in Vegas without knowing where the drummer is?”  
  
“Why does it always come back onto something happening to me?”  
  
“Because something _has_ happened to you, Rog, and you’re obviously not feeling terribly well about it.”  
  
He groans, because it’s true. “Doesn’t mean we have to keep _going over it_. Constantly.”  
  
There’s a pitying look on Brian’s face that Roger absolutely hates. “You know, in medical circles, they call this trauma.”  
  
“Oh my _God_.”  
  
“You don’t have to be so put out about it. Whatever you’re feeling is probably perfectly natural, given the circumstances –”  
  
Roger doesn’t know what drives him to do it. Well, he does, to a point. It’s whatever prompted him to have that earlier thought about Freddie. The idea of driving one man’s touch out of his mind by replacing it with another’s and at least Brian won’t taste like cigarettes. “If I was traumatized, would I do this?” are the incredibly stupid words that slip out of his mouth as he propels himself forward, not so much leaning into Brian as he is falling onto him, one hand landing on his thin chest to support his weight as their lips crash together. When he pulls away, Brian’s face has gone a dangerous shade of pale.  
  
“Yes. That’s exactly what I would expect you to do. Did it make you feel better?”  
  
Roger considers, but the answer is obvious, and it must read on his face because before he can say so much as a word, Brian’s back-pedaling away from both him and the bed until he’s got a hand on the door.  
  
“In that case, maybe we’d better pretend it never happened, yeah? Next flight’s at eight. I’ll come get you.”  
  
And he’s gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Hi, folks! 

This is not an update and I'm very sorry to use the "new chapter" function as a chance to boost this, but unfortunately another writer in this fandom has taken it upon themselves to plagiarize this work and I can't say that I'm terribly thrilled about it. 

Likely_Flawed posted a story yesterday entitled "Frailty" which incorporated large pieces of this story's text in its main narrative, and where it didn't copy the text as a direct quotation, it used the main story beats from Brian and Roger's conversations in chapters two and three, as well as Freddie and Roger's conversation from chapter three as a guideline to direct their own storytelling, taking the pattern of story elements: Roger looks in the mirror and sees his face is a mess. Roger thinks about his suitcase. Roger heads down to the crappy cafe attached to lobby verbatim. 

After a polite comment, they removed the story and mostly I was flattered that someone would think my writing is worth copying. 

Today, they've reposted: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17821265/chapters/42047606. 

While edits have been made, there are still pieces that are direct plagiarism. Take for example the following: 

**From Stormy Weather:**  
“Takes an awfully big twit to hover over someone with a hangover, twanging away, doesn’t it?” The words come out in a croak, rougher even than his usual rasp, but Roger’s sure that can only help to get his point across. 

Brian doesn’t take the bait. The bastard doesn’t even bother to stop strumming, eyes drifting patiently over to Roger as though he hasn’t just emptied the steaming contents of his stomach into a plastic bin a scarce two feet from where he’s playing. Granted, he’s seen worse. At least this time there’s a bin. “Feeling better?""

 **From "Fraility":**  
“Takes an awfully big twat to hover by the loo when someone’s in it, doesn’t it?”

Brian doesn’t take the bait. Roger tries to discreetly shove the paper deeper into his pocket when Brian’s patient eyes drift over him. “Feeling better?”"

 

I would have liked this to be dealt with in a civil manner, but they've now closed comments for moderation, leaving me without any recourse to say publicly that what they've done is wrong and very upsetting. I imagine that any backlash will lead to them deleting the story (again) and probably reposting (again) with minor edits, but I suppose that's how the cookie crumbles. 

Anyway, new chapter soon. (Whenever I stop feeling annoyed about the idea that anything I post is going to end up in someone else's "story.")


End file.
